


Making a Difference

by ineswrites



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Character Death, Grieving, M/M, Nihilism, Suicidal Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:52:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9410366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: The moment he realized life was meaningless, he tried hard to make it mean something. Hence joining S.H.I.E.L.D., and then Hydra; he hoped that maybe if he could make a difference, staying alive wouldn’t be such a goddamn burden.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Brock’s views on life aren’t necessarily the author’s views.

Suicide doesn’t have to be a bad thing, not when you’re reasonable about it. If there’s nobody out there left with their life ruined after Brock’s gone, then he might as well allow himself a comfort of knowing he won’t have to live the whole 80 years, that he can make the suffering shorter. 60 is as good age to go as any. 40, even better.

Let’s face it, everyone on STRIKE team has to be a bit suicidal. Nobody takes a job like that if they’re not okay with going out a little sooner. So obviously Brock and Jack know that about each other before they even exchange phone numbers. It should be a reason enough to _not_ get involved. It should. But it’s not like human hearts ever listen to common sense.

They make a deal – they’re only allowed to take their lives if the other dies on a mission first. Jack never tells Brock he loves him, but staying alive just so Brock won’t be alone is the greatest love declaration he can make. When Brock stops and really thinks about it, takes his time to appreciate this man’s presence in his life, he’s so thankful he whispers it directly into his hair – _thank you, thank you –_ until Jack looks up at him with a confused expression. He doesn’t demand an explanation, though. Jack never demands anything from him, believing that if Brock ever wants to give him anything, he will. Brock tries not to be greedy as well, so he doesn’t beg Jack to _please tell me you love me_ no matter how much he wants to hear it for once, because Jack already tells him as much every day just by being alive.

It doesn’t take long for Brock to realize he will be the one committing suicide, because, apparently, Jack’s life goal is to kill everyone who has a tiny chance to pose a threat to Brock. _Outside_ missions, too. Once a rookie doesn’t come to work and Brock spends an hour complaining about irresponsible little assholes before he calls his number and a shaky female voice tells him her son was found dead last night.

 _He had a creepy stalker crush, couldn’t take that risk_ is all Jack has to say about it.

Accepting his own death is easy, especially that he doesn’t care much about being alive. But realizing he will have to deal with losing Jack one day makes his chest so heavy it’s hard to breathe. Sometimes he’s terrified Jack won’t die on a mission. That one day he just won’t come to work like that rookie. Or that he’ll suddenly drop and won’t get up anymore, because of an aneurysm nobody knew about. Or he’ll get a call from a family member telling him that Jack spent thirteen years killing people threatening the safety of the world just to be bested by a drunk driver.

He spills his heart to Cap once, when they’re all at McKinnon’s house party (McKinnon has two cats and Brock is always the person who leaves his drinking companions in favor of petting them) and he gets too drunk for his own good. Cap’s looking at him a little funny, probably because Brock’s oversharing, but he also looks like he understands. And Brock resolves that it’s good to tell someone. He can barely look Cap in the eye the day after and hopes Jack didn’t hear a word of it, but it’s worth it, all in all.

He makes his peace with it eventually. Jack will die. Brock will have to deal with it. It doesn’t make anything easier, it doesn’t stop Brock from worrying whenever Jack’s a minute late to a meeting, or whenever he doesn’t respond to Brock calling him through the comm during missions, but it makes him feel ready for it.

But when he opens his eyes one day and Jack just isn’t there anymore, it’s too soon. He’s suddenly aware of every cell in his body because it’s heavy and aching. He’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with the fact a fucking _building_ fell on him, and the PCA hooked to his forearm confirms that. For this kind of pain, there is no cure. Not in a hospital.

He doesn’t want to believe it at first. He doesn’t want to give up on this tiny sliver of already dying hope that _maybe_ Jack faked his own death and is hiding somewhere. He calls Jack’s private number more times than he can count, begging him to _pick up, you fucking asshole,_ his voice tight and raspy from all the smoke and dust he breathed in, until the hope burns out, living his chest hollow and cold.

He racks his brain for the last words he said to him, because maybe _you’re an asshole_ translates to _you mean the world to me_ in their language, but if those were his final words to Jack, he’ll never forgive himself. He closes his eyes and he’s back in Triskelion, rushing to the elevator, Jack right on his heels.

 _We might not make it,_ Brock says and Jack scoffs, tells him to not be ridiculous.

_I’m not kidding, it’s Cap, you know what he can do._

_He’ll beat you up, but won’t kill you._ Jack is so sure of himself Brock sighs and almost lets it go.

_I just wanted to tell you_ _—_

_You’ll tell me when it’s over,_ Jack interrupts and pushes Brock out of the elevator so he can make sure the ships will be launched. Stubborn prick.

Brock cries for weeks, living off morphine and whatever else they pump into him, even though he’s given a meal three times a day. He never touches it, cringing at the smell of food, his stomach and just about _everything fucking else_ still aching too much for him to breathe properly, not to mention swallow any solids. Somebody sends him a therapist and she comes every day to ask _let me help you, Brock_ and _talk to me_ but all she gets for her efforts is stubborn silence. Brock stops listening to her the second time she comes anyway.

But when he finally runs out of tears, a huge wave of relief washes over him, so sudden it makes him lightheaded. There is no more waiting. No more excuses. No more _Jack, finally, thank God._ There’s a stash of Xanax waiting for him in his bathroom cabinet. He just needs to break out of here, because when he recovers enough for the guards outside to drag him to the nearest lock-up, it’ll be too late. Also, he doesn’t want to die in a hospital gown or in a cell. So he breaks out, recovers the stash before anybody even realizes he’s gone, and hides in a safehouse just outside Washington. A little house with only one bedroom Brock and Jack spent too much time in, and Brock tries very hard _not to think about it_.

For all the fantasizing about this day, it’s suddenly too hard for Brock to make up his mind like a man. He plays with two bottles of Xanax, rolls them between his palms, stalling. He already lost everything that mattered, his job, his position, _Jack_ , his good looks even, not that he cared about them much in the first place, but it was nice to have people not cringe at the sight of him. He’s about to lose his freedom, should the police find him, and yet he’s taking his time musing over all the things this dirty, unfair world has to offer that _aren’t so bad after all_. He looks down at the bottles he’s holding. He’s been planning this for years. He was going to lie down on the bed, a laptop next to him, _fuck this shit, I’m out_ playing on the loop, Brock’s last message to the world. It should be a piece of cake.

A piece of cake. He likes cake. He decides he’s gonna have a piece of fucking cake before he leaves the world for good. He deserves as much.

He goes out to a nearest café, despite knowing exactly how risky it is, that someone may recognize him, call the police and they’ll catch him – although he can always fight back and make them shoot him, so maybe it’s not a bad idea after all. The thought brings a smile to his lips and it stays as he orders a huge piece of Black Forest cake, his melted face hidden under a hood and sunglasses. He puts a bit in his mouth and _yes, that’s the best last meal_ , and he lets himself enjoy the taste of chocolate, whipped cream and cherry melting on his tongue, until his gaze falls on somebody’s newspaper. Captain America’s mug looks back at him from the front page, and hatred burns hot in Brock’s chest, any pleasure the cake has given him gone like his will to live.

Suddenly it hits him. The moment he realized life was meaningless, he tried hard to make it mean something. Hence joining S.H.I.E.L.D., and then Hydra; he hoped that maybe if he could make a difference, staying alive wouldn’t be such a goddamn burden. It did help him pull through. And maybe nothing came out of it, but it occurs to Brock that he should die the way he lived. Not alone and useless in a dusty bedroom, to be found by the police weeks later. He should put a meaning to it. And what would make a bigger difference, a greater statement, than taking _Captain fucking America_ with him?

Of course, the preparations will take time, but Brock waited so long already, he can wait just a little bit longer. For Jack. Brock told Jack he loved him before, but Jack always believed actions spoke louder than words, and that – that will be the loudest _I love you_ Brock has ever told anybody.


End file.
